


Of Eden

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, ExtraTM, I decided that a 6000 year slow burn wasn't long enough, I mean obviously but like, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, Religious Themes, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), get-together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: In the Beginning, all of creation was perfect. God Herself saw it and proclaimed it Good. And yet perfection is a funny thing. You have to wonder, if in all of this, perfection is subjective.Aziraphale struggles with the concept of perfection. Crowley struggles with the Concept of Aziraphale. These are two very different things.





	Of Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nichigin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichigin/gifts).



> I was religious for a while. it was a whole thing, don't worry about it, but Good Omens finally gave me an outlet for all of the knowledge of the bible I had fed to me, and also helped me find some peace. So, I'm grateful, and this might look like self-projection, and it totally is. I'm gay and religiously repressed, what else is new.
> 
> For Nichigin. Because of so many reasons. Most of all that he is dearer than family to me and goes just as feral as I do when these idiots look at each other.

When you thought about it - really,  _ really _ thought about it, at lengths like Aziraphale had been doing nearly constantly of late - you had to admit that he made a truly atrocious angel. 

 

That was no critique of his character, nor his abilities. For all his long years since the fabric of the universe had been molded to create him, he had striven to obey the commands from Above, to exact the will of Heaven  _ as it is written, so let it be done.  _

 

And it’s not a question of poor communication either. Angels were created first in the order of all things. It had been a rather confusing day; not going about your business as usual because you didn’t exist yet, then suddenly shaking off what would come to be stardust and raising your wings like the unfurling of a butterfly from a cocoon, fully formed and Aware of all manner of things you hadn’t known before, for there had been no ‘before,’ no existence before Her Grace had shaped you out of Her Will alone.

 

The angels had stepped into existence aware of everything. All Her plans, all Her wishes. They contained an extension of Her Grace and Her love, not an inconsiderable amount, for there was an infinite amount of it. First and foremost, though, the angels knew their places, and they knew they were perfect. For there was nothing else they could be.

 

Perfect. A heady thing to be. Good in all things, aware of all things, unfailingly devoted and utterly resplendent. They had known nothing else, didn’t need to. They existed to share in God’s Love, to rejoice with Her and take part in Her creation of existence.

 

Aziraphale remembered watching the stars light the sky, candles flickering into life in the vast darkness and remembered rejoicing, his voice among the myriad of others singing praises to Her as She worked. Like an artist, the darkness became full, swirling nebulae and infinite galaxies painting the Heavens with Her Grace as the brush. The Beginning had been an ecstatic maelstrom of the pure joy of creation, of the wonder of watching Her work.

 

They all knew, all the Heavenly bodies knew, that the Earth would be Her grandest creation. They waited with metaphorical bated breath, as She extended Her Light to the small planet that had been one of thousands newly dotting the Heavens. It felt right, to have it become more, the rightness of it bourn from the intrinsic knowledge all the angels carried of Her Plans. She shared everything with them, and they rejoiced in her creation. 

 

All but one of them. The Fall is not something Aziraphale cared to recall, even if the memory wasn’t clouded by Her Will. Those who needed to know of it knew. And Aziraphale would not be the one to remember or explain one of the most heartrending events in his history. All he would ever admit to recalling, was feeling an intense sensation in his heart that echoed through the light of his being - the feeling of a sudden separation from his Beloved siblings, as they were ripped from Her Grace and cast down. 

 

It had been the Seraphim that heralded the end of the ill-fated revolution. The four of them, the highest of their kind, had cast down the rebellion backed by the Heavenly fire of Her Rage. It had been over in seconds. Aziraphale never saw Lucifer again. Not as he had been, Cherubim and Heavenly and full of love as he had been before. The love of all things had soured, turned to jealousy and hatred. Aziraphale mourned with the rest of the angels. None so deeply as God had mourned for the loss of her Fallen children.

 

But this tale is not about the Fall. The Fall wasn’t what plagued Aziraphale’s waking thoughts, what seeped into his dreams like the call of a prophetic announcement. He tossed and he turned and he sat up and he fretted and he worried. And  _ that  _ was the root of his troubles.

 

Angels, like all things had been in the Beginning, had been created perfect. Had Adam and Eve not been tempted into sin, they would have remained so, infallible and undying, the progenitors of a perfect human race, not a speck of sin marring their souls. 

 

Perfection. The angels had always been so sure of themselves. Confident in their knowledge of what was right,  _ only  _ what was right. You only had to stand next to Gabriel for two minutes to feel the self-assuredness that rippled off him in waves. Aziraphale had been similar, never so haughty about it, but he had been confident in his righteousness, back when Above was his only domicile, surrounded by his brethren and the idyllic and indescribable realms of Heaven. 

 

The trouble started - oh, it’s clear now that it  _ definitely  _ started - when Aziraphale took up his post as the Guardian of the Eastern gate of Eden. There was no defining moment when it all went a bit wobbly, but it’s still clear nonetheless that when Aziraphale descended and took up his corporeal form for the first time, something went… Iffy.

 

Because honestly, what kind of celestial being, an embodiment of Her light and Grace fully instructed on all things,  _ worries? _

 

Doubt is not a Heavenly construct. Worry is not of perfection.

 

And yet Aziraphale, for many years following the exile of Eden, has doubted and worried and, let us not forget, fretted. And now he has - excuse the term -  _ perfected  _ the art of it so finely, that he’s beginning to wonder.

 

Was he ever perfect at all?

 

And it’s mid-fret over that point, one month after the Most Normal Sunday following the Apocancelled, that Crowley strolls into the bookshop to find Aziraphale, pondering ponderously over matters too deep to be pondered on before lunchtime, hunched at his desk and gathering a fine layer of dust about his shoulders and the tops of his forearms.

 

“Come on then, angel,” Crowley says, nudging a pile of books out of his way with the side of his foot. The tower of tomes wobbles precariously, but doesn’t topple, and Crowley swans past it, unhindered, to blow the dust off the angel. “It’s your turn to pick the lunch spot.”

 

Aziraphale blinks rapidly and gives a faint shudder as though waking from a dream. “Oh,” he says, looking up at Crowley with wide, far away eyes. “So sorry, dear boy. What were you saying?”

 

“Lunch, angel,” Crowley says, clicking his tongue impatiently. “Quick, quick. I need to know where to fiddle with reservations. What’s got you so distracted? Tied up in the moral ramifications of owning a signed copy of the Necronomicon again?”

 

Aziraphale tuts and stands, wincing a little as he stretches. “No, no. Bit late to redeem myself of that particular failing, I’m afraid. No, I was just… Lost in thought.”

 

“Easily done. Now come on, look alive. It’s too nice a day to waste inside. I’m thinking alfresco. Alfresco? Yes. Hop to it.”

 

“Yes, yes, alright. Not so fast,” is what Aziraphale starts to say as he grabs his jacket and straightens his limp bowtie. Blasted thing never will hang right. It’s what comes of being a… well, a being of comfort. Soft edges and well-worn clothes and a natural lived-in look to everything he owns. But back to what he starts to say, and doesn’t quite get through, because the thoughts he had been lost in flood back to the forefront of his mind with quite a rough stab through his subconscious.

 

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

 

Oh, blast it. Blast it and dash it all. Why is he thinking of that  _ now,  _ of all times? He’s never been good at compartmentalising. Comes with the territory of being an angel. Creatures of divine light, comprised wholly of intent and emotion. Makes it rather difficult to just briefly consider and move on.

 

But again… Maybe that’s just Aziraphale…

 

Fingers click rapidly in front of his face. “Aziraphale. What on earth has gotten into you?” Crowley’s expression of mildly irritated confusion quickly morphs into one of agitated suspicion. He does a quick turn in place, as though the object of Aziraphale’s distraction is lurking in the shadows of the bookshop, possibly behind the Harlen Cobens. “Is it Up Top? Has something happened?”

 

He turns back to Aziraphale when nothing untoward creeps out from behind any of the shelves, and the angel is shaking his head, slightly more outwardly composed, though what’s going on under the calm facade is anyone’s guess. “Nothing to trouble yourself with, my dear fellow. All is well. Now, you were talking about lunch.”

 

A delightful lunch at the Summerhouse, alfresco as Crowley had requested, and when has lunch ever not been delightful, Aziraphale wonders as they walk along the river. Good food, a lovely ambience… Splendid company. Splendid company that is currently swaggering along the boardwalk, talking about… About…

 

Well, Aziraphale will be forgiven for not listening as intently as he should be. He has a lot on his metaphorical plate. 

 

But, perhaps… As with all things on plates, it may be better shared.

 

“Crowley…”

 

“Hang on, I’m just getting to the good bit. Well, the bad bit, but the good bit. The bad good bit. So, I was supposed to be doing a bit of tempting, nothing too overhanded. Subtle, you know, and I-”

 

“ _ Crowley. _ ”

 

“I-  _ Yes,  _ angel?”

 

They stop, cyclists and other strollers moving round them as they halt at the riverside. Aziraphale’s mouth is open, expression one of mild distress, enough to command Crowley’s attention entirely.

 

“What is going on with you?” Crowley stuffs his hands in his pockets, regarding Aziraphale with concern, practicably hidden behind an affected mask of casual derisiveness. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside. He’s been like that for as long as Aziraphale has known him.

 

“Do you remember being perfect?” Aziraphale asks, wringing his hands as he waits for the answer. Or, more accurately, the physical response to his question. The verbal answer is secondary.

 

Crowley recoils, from the hips up, he jerks as if the question has burnt him the way Holy light and water surely would. Then, as always, his hips follow the rest of him and he takes a few calculatedly staggering steps back, half turning away. Aziraphale catches a glimpse of his eyes behind his dark glasses. They glint wetly, pupils thinned to darting slits. 

 

“I don’t talk about that,” Crowley says, teeth clenched. “You know I don’t. You’ve never asked. You know- You know  _ better. _ I don’t-”

 

“ _ Do  _ you?” Aziraphale presses, not unkindly, just impatiently. He’s no more capable of being cruel to Crowley than he could cut off his own wings. Actually, he would cut off his own wings  _ rather  _ than be cruel to Crowley.

 

It’s not a thought he’s ever allowed himself to entertain before.

 

It’s new. It’s terrifying.

 

“I.  _ Yes. _ ” Crowley scowls, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. “It was part of our punishment. Remember what we lost, what we could never go back to. You don’t know what it was like, angel. I thought we had an  _ agreement  _ that you  _ wouldn’t ask. _ ”

 

“Peace, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, holding up an open palm. “I don’t ask out of curiosity. Well, partly, but that’s beside the point. I ask because… Because I don’t remember. Or, I do, but… It was before. Before I was sent to guard the gate of Eden. And… I don’t think I… Am. Anymore.”

 

Crowley looks at him. Really looks; Aziraphale can feel his gaze boring into his face, trying to find the reason behind his question, the cause of what he’s saying - the motivation. Aziraphale would be surprised if he found it, he doesn’t even really know himself. 

 

But that’s the point. The uncertainty. Angels are perfect. Angels are sure. Doubt is for humans, for the generations following the bite of that forbidden fruit at the dawn of their race. Doubt is not of Heaven. Knowing good, not from bad, because they only know the  _ absence  _  of bad. 

 

“I.” Crowley swallows. It’s remarkably human. “Don’t understand.”

 

Aziraphale smiles and sighs, and his smile is placating and absent. “Neither do I, my dear. The ramblings of an old being, I suppose. Pay me no mind.”

 

And that is that. For a time.

 

Except it’s not. Not at all.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
